The Memories of Older Men

 I was tall for my age,

And turned to basketball in hopes

            Of finding trousers that fit.

Perhaps it sounds silly,

But, so does a cracking voice

            In a silent room –

That funny, broken language of youth.

Here, during the early years,

There are fewer things more important

            Than to know, you aren’t alone.

So, I sought the trouser deficient

Because shared plight is hardly a plight at all,

            It is a chance to be,

Without being more than you can handle.

It was a revolution of the physically awkward.

We danced across the hardwood.

We moved in synchronicity,

            And we moved in corresponding paths,

Larger than the sum of our parts,

Which is difficult to believe.

            In waking life, we stumbled,

But here, we found grace.

Though my limbs remained gangly,

And what I sought never found its way into my possession,

            I did eventually inherit wealth;

The glowing riches of glory delivering itself

Into my hands: the soft arch fighting against time –

            A time I never thought of –  

And when it ended, how was I to know?

I can still hear the voices, the throats urging glee.

I don’t remember if I eeked anything more than a

            Squeaky whelp, but for that moment, I was loved.

If you go into that gym now,

My name will still hang,

            And there I am young.

It is a life that continues on, with age and death be damned.

The laurels short-lived, and I have lived too long without.